


Promise Me Wild Roses

by CousinNick



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vikings, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-01
Updated: 2012-06-08
Packaged: 2017-11-06 11:30:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/418394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CousinNick/pseuds/CousinNick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prince Tino was born a sickly child, destined to die by the clutches of his fate. When he falls in love with the stable boy and his best friend Berwald, things could not be better for the two! They soon decide to Elope into the night to be together forever--but something goes terribly wrong as fate tries to tear them apart! Rated M for reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not Fit

I really should not be starting another story...But damn Swedish Folk music just gives me so many freaking ideas! Okay, well, this story is based off of a song/ballad by one of my favorite Swedish bands, Garmarna. It is a pretty recent song, and although I could not find much about it's historical features, it is a great Swedish Folk ballad!

The song is titled, Herr Holkin 'Sir Holkin'. It is about a woman who loves a man dearly, but they can not be together by some twist of fate. So, the woman begs her handmaidens to help her tell Herr Holkin of her love for him, so that they may elope. One of the handmaidens agrees to ride during the night to tell Sir Holkin of her mistress's love for him. But—she is actually a wicked maid who wants to drive the two lovers apart...Well... I won't go into too much more detail, that would ruin the story! If you wish to 'read ahead' from this story, simply look up, 'Herr Holkin' by Garmarna, for a wicked Swedish experience! Thank you to MalinChan, yotzie and Ruusu for being my awesome Swedish/Finnish translators! I do not own Hetalia!

…...

The babies first cry was the first sign that something was severely wrong.

After the Midwives struggled for several minutes with the pregnant Queen, heaving with sour breath, they were finally able to push the small babe from the woman's strained body. By the time the tip of the babies head touched the warm and blackened air of the stoned walls, the nurses and handmaidens were already covered with sweat and pinching their swabbed scarfs over their mouths reverently. It was only when the young babes ears were shown from the mothers blood strewn flesh that their straining slender fingers were finally able to pull and coax the crown of the twisting babe from his mothers womb. The mother of the child could only scream and cry with unrestrained pain as her fingers dug painfully into her wide eyed husband's arms, her knotting hair frothing around her face, so dampened with sweat and tears.

The babe was cradled and wrapped loosely in a swab of ivory cloth, the strain and wear from his mother's eyes disappearing slowly, like water being drained from a cup. The husband, King of Finland, could only watch with soft blue eyes as his son was cradled up into the air, the baby still squirming his little head back and forth, his mouth not yet opened. Both parents were speechless with awe and love as they tiredly and fondly watched their new born son being held up into the crinkling light of the hall.

The first Midwife, a young woman with burnt brunette colored hair smiled with green eyes as she welcomed the young lad into the world. She held him up to her chest and did her best to coax him to open his mouth wide, letting in the warm and sour smelling air of the great Hall to flow through his lips and lungs.

The child was covered with sticky blood, as was to be expected. His pale body was painted a dull pink as his head lulled into the Hungarian's steadily breathing chest. His arms flailed and his lips puckered, eyes still closed with small white lashes, a bit of bloodied sinew clinging to the small rounding of hair atop his head that promised to be as blonde as his mothers when he was grown.

What was not to be expected was how small and fragile the body of the child was as it wriggled and grappled in the woman's gentle grip. The wet nurse, who was fondly called Elizabeta, focused her eyes on the babies protruding belly, the gentle curl of the umbilical cord sliding and withering around like a dead snake. Elizabeta took a sharp sigh of the smoky room that was burning brightly from the many amassed torches that shook with the howling of the wind.

She motioned with her had quickly to another nurse, a young Ukrainian girl no more than fourteen who shyly approached the wet nurse and the baby, her hands curled in on themselves from nervousness.

"Hurry now Katyusha, he has yet to breathe..." The Hungarian woman spoke quietly, her voice taking on a bit of worriment as she traced her fingers along the cheeks of the small baby, the color of his skin turning a bit blue. The brunette bit her lip in nervousness as the babe still would not open his eyes... This child will die if he does not take a breath...

Elizabeta thought with urgency as the young Ukrainian girl returned from the corner of the stoned mortared room with a small knife, the blade edged sharply, like the plume from a hawk. With shaking fingers the young short haired girl, with the assistance of the older woman, cut the umbilical cord with a low slither of the blade, the babe wriggling free as another wet nurse went to work with dispatching the unneeded fleshly cord.

The Hungarian then, with quick and trained fingers, went to work with the child. The young prince of Finland's cheeks were already taking of frighting blueish hue, like the flesh from a blueberry. Alarmed with fright the Hungarian quickly paced the swaddled and sickeningly quiet babe against her knee, bending him over till she gave his small little rump a quick slap. Still the babe was silent, chocking quietly from lack of air.

Elizabeta's eyes widened as she tried again, hitting the boy a bit harder on the rump—still he remained deadly silent. She swallowed thickly, fearing the worst. He palm smacked him again and again and still he would not cry or scream. Something was terribly wrong.

"Where is my child? Bring him to me..." The weak and fluttery voice of the Queen of Finland commanded, her eyes scanning over to the Hungarian woman who was running her hands quickly and haphazardly over the young babes chest, trying to feel a heart beat, a pulse—anything.

Elizabeta made a small noise in the back of her throat as she tried again and again to hit the child into crying, spitting, wailing—anything. Still he remained mockingly still. She was loosing him, slowly and surely, the Prince of Finland was suffocating.

Katyusha, sensing something was amidst, trotted over to her teacher's side, her shaking hands working as well to coax the baby into breathing. Katyusha began to loosen the babes swaddled, hoping to help his lungs to take in more air. As Elizabeta smacked his back with a dull thud, the Ukrainian girl began to pry his lips open with her fingers, her eyes beginning to sting with tears. The babe was not going to survive the winter night at this rate.

"I am sorry Ma'm... He does not take breath!" Elizabeta cried out desperately, the other wet nurses rushing to her side with warmed swatches of cloth and a small wooden switch used to swat children on their behinds when they did not behave.

"What do you mean he does not breathe!" The Queen shouted hysterically, sitting up from her bed, the covers around her frail and sweating body shifting like waves from a heated sea. The woman's violet eyes grew wide as she caught sight of her still baby, her hands flitting over her mouth as her lips wailed into cries. Next it was her husband to shout with alarm.

The King of Finland's voice was deep and booming, like a tidal wave that made all the handmaidens cringe with fear. The torches along the wall fluttered from the blinding and whirling snow outside, the King's voice being swallowed by the wild December winds.

"By all the Gods my son will live! I do not care if you must enchant him with the wickedness of Gullveig! He will live and he will be king! Do what you must!"* He growled out, his hands gripping his wife's frail ones as she cried on, her body twisting into the froth of flaxen blankets.

The King's tired and red rimmed eyes bore into Elizabeta as she nodded. She vowed to help the babe with quiet breath, her fingers straining against his frail body.

"Katyusha! Hurry and try to get his eyes to open!" The Hungarian woman shouted at the younger girl who was looking as if she might burst out into tears at any moment, the situation too much to even bare any more. Elizabeta clenched her teeth together and yanked the girl froward by her shoulders.

"Breathe into his eyes! Make them flutter child, lest this young lad die in the clutches of Hel!"* The Hungarian woman shouted out with heated breath, her words none to kind. The young Ukrainian, sobering herself with the hastily spoken words, nodded shakily before her fingers cupped against the babies fattened and blue tinted cheeks, his eyes curled closed. Carefully she began to blow, whispering encouraging words in Ukrainian to beg the child to live.

Once that was taken care of, Elizabeta then raised the switch made from the branches of the scared ash tree. She held it above her head and, her eyes stinging with tears, brought it down on the babes rump with a harsh Slap!

All was silent inside the small little birthing room. The wind had ceased to howl, the torches had ceased to crackle, the Hall had ceased to groan. The only flicker of a noise was the small, cooing noise of a tiny cry.

Elizabeta held her hands at her sides, the ash sapling dropping from her bone white fingers with a soft thud as it landed on the hay strewn floor. The candles blew and smoke slithered upward to the tapestry strewn walls as the Ukrainian girl, with one last blow to the child's snow white lashes, stepped backward, her eyes impossibly wide. Her breath quieted as she looked up to Elizabeta.

Suddenly, like a gift from the Gods above, the little eye lashes began to flutter and wrinkle before they slid open slowly, like a flower gazing up to the sun for the first time.

He had his mothers eyes. Like shinning amethyst they were, bright and innocent. Glassy, like the mirrored lakes when the stars embrace them in their touch. His chubby face began to fade back into a natural pinkish shade as his soft and rosy lipped mouth began to gasp and gulp. His hands grabbed at the warming air, the bitter cold from the snow storm outside not biting into his pale smooth skin yet. Elizabeta could only laugh quietly, her voice thick with sobs before she cradled the young boy to her breasts, the child cooing and squirming.

The Hungarian woman, with a smile on her face, lightly pressed the now swaddled babe into the arms of his mother. The Queen of Finland could only stared as her eyes widened, her lips that were once strewn into sadness, breathing a quick breath of delight.

The King of Finland was also pleased as he held his son's small hand against his palms, the babe wrapping his soft fingers around his fathers thumb. The King could only chuckle as the other hand began to root it's way into his fathers beard, smiling with bubbling innocence at the feel of the bristly mane.

The child's eyes became impossibly wide as they took in the bright sensation of the new world that enveloped him. A world of warmth, a world of cold. A world of dangers, a world of love. A world, of wild roses...

"What should we call him?" The King's wife choked out, her breathing becoming unreliable as she looked into the sweet face of her only son. The babe simply crooned and sniffed, his eyes gazing up at the warming and tear strewn faces of his parents, his violet eyes shimmering like bright jewels, worth more than any kingdom.

The King of Finland sighed softly as he placed his large hand over his son's brow, the babe sliding his eyes shut with gentleness as he pushed into the warming touch of his fathers hand.

"Tino is a fine name, a strong name." He murmured beneath his breath, his eyes trained lovingly on his new son. His wife smiled and nodded weakly, her arms curled around the babe with sweetness as he began to root his small and feeble hands into the blankets that surrounded him like a starry veil.

"Then that will be his name... Tino, Tino Väinämöinen."

The Prince of Finland, would live.

….

Or so they would have thought...

After the struggled birth of the Prince of Finland, the weary villagers could not but feel hope grow in their hearts. They anticipated with bated breath that the young Prince titled 'Tino' would live to take his fathers place on the throne when the old king took his long and final sleep into the land of the dead. Long had the country needed an heir to the throne when his father would pass into the next world, and on that bitter cold and snowing winter night, when the young Finn with the violet eyes like his mother had come into the world without a breath in his lungs—well, it alarmed everyone in the Kingdom of the Finns.

But, after much coaxing, the child had taken breath and his frail and pale body was filled with life to his parents desperate delight. There was not a more happier family in all the land of Finland. The birds sang everyday to the laughter and smiles of the three nobles. The sun shone brightly on the innocent face of the Prince and the stars at night twinkled with a lullaby just for Tino.

Tino's mother, resting from her time being in labor, would let Tino suckle from her breast as she stroked his pale and shining hair. She would often sing to him and cradle him in her arms like any loving mother would. Yet the winter was still heavy in the air and almost everyone within the great Halls of the Kingdom felt it seep into their bones and into their woolen tunics and leather boots. The unbearable winds raked against their coats and bit at their noses—resulting in most of the servants growing ill with cold or numbness. Many were sent home to their meager farms and halls to take to their sick bed—for no measure was too great in keeping the health of the Prince of Finland strong. His parents had already lost him once, they would not lose him again.

But the Gods were often cruel to the land of men, and they deemed it fit to try the spirits and sanity's of the happy and content monarchs of Finland.

One night, when the yellow and red winter sun had gone down in a blur of smokey purple and the moon was high above the trees, the young Prince of Finland began to wail and cough from his small sheep skinned crib at the foot of his parents bed.

It was not custom for the child to sleep in the same room as the parents, but the King and Queen of Finland were already greatly worried about their son's health. They made an exception, placing the ceder carved crib against the foot of the bed, wrapping the babe in seal furs each and every night to keep the chill off of him. Winter was not a good month for babies to be born, as the icy cold usually killed them within the first weeks of their lives. Many children did not grow into maturity, and Tino had already been cursed with a struggle filled birth... There was no telling if the child would even live to see his early teens...

But on that night, when the wind howled it's fiercest, like the hungry and snapping wolf Fenrir, the Queen of Finland was woken with a start as the walls of the monarchs bedroom began to ring with wails and cries, muffled and choking.* The wind howled outside and the snow drifted in sheets along the stone and wood cut window that was not framed by glass, but by shards of ice.

Lady Jaana woke first, the necklace's against her breast jingling and shuffling as her cold arms hugged her body to her. Her frock, knitted of warm wool, slithered as she sighed into the air. She had to admit, she did not like waking up in the middle of the night to feed the babe as much as she could—but the task must be done. She simply would not rely on handmaidens and wet nurses to feed her baby, no matter how convenient. Tino would not drink from a strangers breast, her son was too precious to her to be tainted by another woman's milk.

She was still very tired and weary from the birth of her son a few weeks ago, and her ears were not as quick as they once were before—but she could still hear the unmistakable muffled cries of her babe from his crib.

Tying her hair back with a bit of sinew, the woman shuffled her feet from under the heavy sheep skins and flaxen blankets to place her nimble feet on the straw strewn floor, the hay doing little to bite away the cold from the room. She plucked a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around her slender shoulders like a shawl before she stumbled in the dark over to the wriggling babe. The blanket did nothing to still her shivering body.

She knelt down near the crib, her eyes tired as she scanned the wide eyed gaze of her babe, his glassy violet eyes shining from the light from the moon that shifted in from the open window. She thought she remembered closing the window with a scrap of leather and nail—apparently not...

She frowned and looked back to Tino who was still crying, his chest heaving up and down, his toothless mouth opened and gasping. Lady Jaana frowned as she scooped up her dear child into her arms, the baby squeaking with raspy breath as he cried, his body cold to the bone. Lady Jaana's eyes immediately widened as she held her baby to the warmth of her breast, her eyes darting around in the solid blackness of the bedroom chambers.

The wind howled along with the baby's persistent rasping and Lady Jaana could only hold the babe to her chest tighter as her eyes bit into tears, her thin lips wringing into a frown of despair.

Something was terribly wrong...

Quickly, with shuffling steps, she made her way to her husband's side of the bed, the King of Finland snoring lightly in his sleep, his beard muffling the noise some.

Queen Jaana bit her lip as she reached out with a pale hand, her bony fingers wringing themselves into her husband's tunic, shaking him slightly.

The King only mumbled in his sleep and licked his lips, his eyes remaining shut as he slept. The Queen began to grow more alarmed. No longer could she hear the babies cries, but him instead gasping for breath. She looked down at Tino, at his soft hair, and watched his cheeks grow blue. Tino was dying—her baby was dying!

With a low sob she grabbed a fist full of her husband's tunics and wrenched them up with her hands, her husbands eyes fluttering open as he rolled up from his side, eyes blinking in the darkness.

"Jaana, what is wrong my love?" The King asked out into the tangible darkness with grogginess. His eyes were watery and his mouth was slack as he yawned. It was only when he caught the wide and panicked look in his wife's eyes that he sat up suddenly, his hands at her arms.

"My dear! What is wrong! What torments you so?" King Mauno asked, his eyes concerned as they flicked over the bundle that was wheezing in his wife's arms. He swallowed thickly and blinked.

"Our—Our Son!" Jaana hiccuped, her voice on the brink of sobbing like a little child. Mauno looked up at the bundle. It was shaking and wriggling, as if the child was trying to get more air into his little lungs.

"Oh by the Gods!" The Finnish King whispered with strife as his eyes quivered over the sight of his slowly withering son. The babes head was lulling from his mothers arms, his violet eyes impossibly wide—like the winter moon.

The King immediately threw his blankets from his body and swung his feet onto the hay covered floor, his body aching from the cold of the opened window. He gritted his teeth and stood up in one quick movement, his back arching as he grabbed for his wife's arms, Jaana helping her aging husband to his feet.

The Finnish king, once finding his footing, quickly struggled to the heavy oaken doors that were guarded with heavy locks of iron. His fingers fumbled over the locks as his thick hands began to jumble the mess of iron, the locks clinking and clanking sickly.

The Queen, still rocking the babe in her arms, only fretted more as her husband struggled with the locks, the cracked window at her back, the cold and hurtful winds biting against her flesh, making her tears stain against her lovely face that was now contorted with grief.

Finally, with much struggle on King Mauno's part, the locks gave way and with a heavy groan, the door unfettered itself and pushed open, the slab of wood grating along the dirt floor of the longhouse.

Once free, the two nobles and their coughing and gasping son ran down the corridor, their heated yells for help catching the ears of the guards stationed in the hallway. Quickly, the Finnish guards blinked their eyes open and gave attention to the two noble's who, with heated breath, gasped a single name into the whispering Halls of the great Finnish Kingdom.

"Tino...Tino...Oh Dear Gods Tino..." Queen Jaana breathed and cried shamelessly, even the King's watery gaze sliding a few tears down his scarred and bristly cheeks.

…

A half and hour had passed as Elizabeta did her best to coax the child's lungs to open and his breathing to return to normal. She had pattered warm wet scraps of cloth to his chest, wrapped him in a steaming froth of heat and blankets, but still his body was bone chillingly cold, his cheeks growing paler by the moment. Elizabeta frowned as she tried to coax a warm dipper of milk past his lips—the child would not swallow. He only spit it up and wailed louder, his chest heaving up and down painfully, eyes sliding open and shut like the frantic fluttering of a moth's wings. Elizabeta sighed wiped her sweat drenched brow.

They had lit the high set cauldrons with a mass of flames, stuffing the iron pots to the brim with dried kindling. The cauldrons swung from heavy chains, the huge metal rimmed troughs bigger than any cauldron that brewed in the hall of the great God Aegir.*

The room was sweltering with heat as the fires swung from the air by weighty chains, as this as a man's arm, yet it did little to warm the pale body of the little Finn. Still the baby withered and cried, still his heart beat remained faint. Elizabeta frowned and pressed her fingers against his chest, the baby curling in on himself, his eyes struggling to stay open. He was a like a broken dove that had been left out in the cold for too long...

Elizabeta pulled her fingers back with sorrow as she sat on her knees above the baby, her head clasped into her hands. She began to sob and wipe her tears on her green frock, the baby making garbled noises into the smoky air of the room. There was nothing she could do for this child. He was choking on his own raspy breath, on the coldness from inside his lungs that spread like an icy web, stretching over his heart. He would be dead by the first roosters crow...

Elizabeta looked down at the cooing and wheezing babe that she had helped bring into the world. She looked down at his crown of soft glowing hair, his bright and sweet little eyes. She looked into that innocent face that had done the world no harm—and cried. For that was all she could do. The Crown of Finland would have no heir...

...

The King and Queen of Finland were nervously waiting outside the stone walls of the nursery. Their breathing hummed in their throats as they choked and sobbed. Their fingers twisted into each others as they promised with saddened looks in their yes that—not mater what happened—the Gods always had a plan. The land of men would suffer from the loss of the Prince of Finland, but they would go on... With time, they might be able to accept the thought of their son dying... But...Tonight, when they had only had the babe for a mere few weeks? It was unbearable for the King and Queen of Sweden. Rulers they were—but parents they were first. No amount of royal blood in their veins could stop the shameless tears from coming into their faces like heavy and icy drops of water.

The tapestries of great lions and birds flowed without purpose against the stone and thatched walls of the great Hall. The shuffling of feet moaned and groaned into the sadden silence of the air. The hall was dark save for the torches huddled round the regal bodies of the Queen and King, their guards at their sides. The cold air bit at everyone around them and entreated the sour air of the Hall to silence.

The hunting dogs, sensing that something was wrong, sat by the feet of their masters. King Mauno, too distraught to even pat the dogs on the head, settled for staring with watery blue eyes at the dirt laden floor. Everyone was dismal as they waited outside the small door. All the servants had taken off their leather hats and stood around the hallway, looking sullen and sad, the freshly lit torches blowing smoke in their already wet eyes.

It was only when the heavy door began to shift that everyone strained and stood up, their eyes finding purpose on the door with heavy glances. With a few hesitant seconds, Elizabeta, wearing a narrow and blank face, walked out from behind the door, her skirts ruffled, hands balled into tight fists that made her hands burn a bone white. Her eyes were red rimmed and pink as she walked over to the King. She did not speak, only motioned with a quick flick of her wrist for the mighty King of Finland to stand and come with her.

King Mauno swallowed thickly and looked to his wife. Queen Jaana's eyes were strewn with tears as she bit off a sob and wrapped her arms around the young Ukrainian handmaiden who was also crying, her eyes shining bright in the dimly lit hall. The young girl pressed The Queen to her bosom and gave her as much comfort as she could, trying her best to pull herself together with no avail.

After rising, King Mauno was led inside the blisteringly warm room that housed the little baby.

The Finnish King was relieved to hear the sounds of the babe crying, letting him know that his son was still in the world of men and not down below on the shores of the dead.

But, the Hungarian's face did nothing to bring hope to his eyes and he quietly sighed, walking stiffly over to the crib that held the gasping and shivering babe.

Tino's eyes had now twisted shut as he squirmed and opened his mouth like a gaping fish, his body twisting in several heat soaked wraps. Runes had been carved along the edges of his crib to help ease the illness, but not even the power of the Gods seemed to help the poor innocent child.*

"Will he die?" Mauno asked quietly, his words choking past his lips as he looked into the face of his little boy, his little Prince.

Elizabeta swallowed harshly, her eyes diverting against the Kings intent gaze. She looked to the babe and a sad and painful look crossed over her now tarnished green eyes.

"He will be dead by morning. Even if there was some miracle that he did live—his life would be filled with sickness and struggle." Elizabeta spoke quietly, bowing her head low to the King in this time of grief.

King Mauno sighed through gritted teeth and nodded, rubbing his eyes with his hands, his fingers shaking.

"Then there is only one thing to do..." He breathed out with regret, his voice suddenly taking on a stern tone as he placed his hands inside the ceder crib. Elizabeta's eyes widened as the Finnish King lifted up the babe in his arms and stared into those shut eyes, the lashes fluttering against the babes paled and bluish skin.

"My Lord—surely you would not—you couldn't! He is your son!" Elizabeta asked with disbelief as the King cradled the wriggling body of his son to his chest. The King's eyes began to grow cold as he looked down at the Hungarian.

"You are but a Midwife. How dare you lecture me—the King!" The King barked out viciously, his own grief taking over his usually cheery features. Elizabeta shrunk back, realizing that she had over stepped her boundaries. She quickly bowed in apologies to the grieving king before she bit her lip, her hands wringing around themselves behind her back.

"I am sorry my good King, I only meant that, well—perhaps a miracle could be preformed! There are many a wise women in the village, ones with power over spells and herbal knowledge. I am only a Midwife—I know nothing of the gift of magic...Perhaps, they may be allowed to help your son? Perhaps he will live?" She spoke softly, her eyes not daring to meet the King in the face.

King Mauno scowled.

"Even if he was to live, he'd be a sickly thing. I need no room in my throne for a sallow child, no matter if he is my son. The country deserves better..." He said with the inklings of regret as he hardened his jaw.

Then, with a quick movement he pierced his gaze to Elizabeta for a final time before he turned to the oaken door was the glowing from the flames in the heated room.

"Besides. You know this has been a tradition in our culture since the times of Old—when the Sea gave birth to the first Goddess who gave birth to the first man! It is a tradition that must be abide by... No matter how many hearts it pains. The child is not fit, therefore..."* King Mauno's voice dropped into silence as he looked down at his son. Those tiny little hands, those sweet little lips that were gasping for breath, that soft crown of hair as soft as a doves wings. He had to look into the face of his innocent and sick son and simply harden his gaze. The rule of a King could not be weak. A fathers love was no exception. He had to do what was best for the country, regardless of how it would tear his heart in two.

"...Therefore...The child must die..." His voice whispered into the crackling of the room as his gaze shifted back to the door. Without another word the King began to take heavy steps to the latches of the barricade, his other arm cradling the crying and coughing child who would not open his violet eyes. The King could not look down at the boy, for fear of breaking down into tears. This had to be done, for the good of the country. A sickly child was something not to be tolerated. It meant he could not function in society. If Tino grew up to be physically weak, he could not be able to take the throne. Invaders would come and steal the beautiful land of Finland one by one. Finland did not need the guidance of a sickly King. Tino would never take the throne—he just wouldn't have the strength to.

As King Mauno pushed open the doors, he was met by a throng of eager and watery eyes that bore into him with such intensity that he could only clench his jaws tighter together.

At the sight of the babe in his arms, the crowd visibly relaxed, their smiles returning. They thought the Grand King of the Finn's had come to show off the new attained health of his son. They thought Tino would live... They thought the young babe would live...

It was only Lady Jaana who looked up at her husband with wide and startled eyes, like a deer that had just been shot by an arrow, straight into it's heart. She let out a soft breath as she lightly craned her neck up to meet her husbands eyes. Her mouth slowly parted, eyes wild. She let a small moan of terror slip from her mouth.

"No...No...You can't...Not my baby...! Ei minu Vauva! Not my baby!"* She shrieked, her voice ringing in the halls as she tried to sit up with struggle, her arms extending to grab at her husband's cloak and night shirt. Katyusha and several other midwives and handmaidens had to grab at their mistress and hold her down as she shamelessly cried and yelled, her hair framing her small face as tears roared down her violet eyes—eyes so much like her sons.

The King frowned with sadness before he regained his composure and looked ahead of the corridor with sharp set eyes, his footsteps doing their best to free themselves from his wife's clawing. But Lady Jaana was fueled by distress and hysterics. She screamed at the top of her lungs, shouting insults at the Gods—at the spirits that were supposed to protect her babe. The spirits that had failed her. She shouted and she cursed the halls that rung around the property. She cursed it all and screamed from the top of her frail lungs before she could breathe no more—only being able to watch with a wrenched heart as her husband began to walk down the halls, down a throng of villagers who bent low to the ground, men with sorrow filled gaze, women with tears dirtying their faces.

King Mauno walked down the milled mass of people and pressed Tino closely to his heart, feeling the babe shudder again with a forced breath, his heart beat fluttering madly like a dying bird without wings.

"Oh Gods...My baby...My baby! Tino, Tino!" Lady Jaana called with howls of grief as her husband walked down the low lipped stairs of the long house, his eyes sliding shut with pain at his wife's maddening cry's. He gritted his teeth and stood outside the door to the Great Hall that marveled everything in the land of the Finn's. More beautiful than a throng of blossomed apple trees, more shinning than a fishes whitened belly, more grander than a bears great strength.

It was the Kingdom, the hall that King Mauno wanted to give to his son. But now... Now there was no hope for that. Tino would be left to die in the old ways of the Norse.* If he was not fit to live, then he was only fit to die.

Scowling slightly, King Mauno pressed his hands on the great and ornate locks of the hall that guarded his wife and he. He sighed with heavy breath as he pushed open the door, the wood grating with mocking.

The Finnish King closed his eyes tight as the sting of the winter winds beat against him unmercifully. The Snow and sleet cared nothing for the grieving man. They only wished to steal the very breath from his babes lungs—and King Mauno was going to let them do just that.

Bracing himself against the fierce Finnish snows, he trudged through the snow, his boots disappearing into the snow with sunken steps as he waded through the water like ice. He bit at his lips and held the child close to him, the baby crying desperately from the cold that invaded his already icy cheeks.

"I am sorry my son, but the Gods do not seem fit to hold you in the land of men no longer. I only hope the Goddess Hel takes pity on you, Prince of Finland..." Tino's father breathed out with sorrow as he neared the middle patch of snow that was drooping along the scattered branches of some ash trees. King Mauno, deciding that the shelter of the sacred trees might bring his son luck in the land beyond men, laid the child down along the crystal snow*

His breath scattered from his lips in puffs of smoky white as his chilled fingers began to dig into the snow, his hands cupping the shards of ice till his fingers began to bleed and run red.

After the little gorge in the snow was made, the King picked up his infant son once more before he stared into the closed eyes of the babe, the child stopping his crying, to cold to even shiver. The King, regret filling his heart, pressed his cold lips to the child's brow, kissing his son goodbye before he placed the tiny cold body into the snow.

The child wriggled in his swaddles and wrappings, his face staining blue and pink as he made soft whimpers and gasps for breaths.

"Anteeksi... Forgive me my son..."* King Mauno breathed into the chilly air before he dared stand up. He shook the snow from his shoulders and said a silent prayer for the sacred Ash trees to guard his son's body well, so that the wolves and ravens would not fell upon the babe and rip him open.

After that there was nothing left to say, nothing left to do. He would leave his son out to die. That was it.

The King sighed and, with pained step, made his way back into the glowing Hall. The hearth fires would do nothing to warm his icy heart now...

…...


	2. Not Fit

I really should not be starting another story...But damn Swedish Folk music just gives me so many freaking ideas! Okay, well, this story is based off of a song/ballad by one of my favorite Swedish bands, Garmarna. It is a pretty recent song, and although I could not find much about it's historical features, it is a great Swedish Folk ballad!

The song is titled, Herr Holkin 'Sir Holkin'. It is about a woman who loves a man dearly, but they can not be together by some twist of fate. So, the woman begs her handmaidens to help her tell Herr Holkin of her love for him, so that they may elope. One of the handmaidens agrees to ride during the night to tell Sir Holkin of her mistress's love for him. But—she is actually a wicked maid who wants to drive the two lovers apart...Well... I won't go into too much more detail, that would ruin the story! If you wish to 'read ahead' from this story, simply look up, 'Herr Holkin' by Garmarna, for a wicked Swedish experience! Thank you to MalinChan, yotzie and Ruusu for being my awesome Swedish/Finnish translators! I do not own Hetalia!

…...

The babies first cry was the first sign that something was severely wrong.

After the Midwives struggled for several minutes with the pregnant Queen, heaving with sour breath, they were finally able to push the small babe from the woman's strained body. By the time the tip of the babies head touched the warm and blackened air of the stoned walls, the nurses and handmaidens were already covered with sweat and pinching their swabbed scarfs over their mouths reverently. It was only when the young babes ears were shown from the mothers blood strewn flesh that their straining slender fingers were finally able to pull and coax the crown of the twisting babe from his mothers womb. The mother of the child could only scream and cry with unrestrained pain as her fingers dug painfully into her wide eyed husband's arms, her knotting hair frothing around her face, so dampened with sweat and tears.

The babe was cradled and wrapped loosely in a swab of ivory cloth, the strain and wear from his mother's eyes disappearing slowly, like water being drained from a cup. The husband, King of Finland, could only watch with soft blue eyes as his son was cradled up into the air, the baby still squirming his little head back and forth, his mouth not yet opened. Both parents were speechless with awe and love as they tiredly and fondly watched their new born son being held up into the crinkling light of the hall.

The first Midwife, a young woman with burnt brunette colored hair smiled with green eyes as she welcomed the young lad into the world. She held him up to her chest and did her best to coax him to open his mouth wide, letting in the warm and sour smelling air of the great Hall to flow through his lips and lungs.

The child was covered with sticky blood, as was to be expected. His pale body was painted a dull pink as his head lulled into the Hungarian's steadily breathing chest. His arms flailed and his lips puckered, eyes still closed with small white lashes, a bit of bloodied sinew clinging to the small rounding of hair atop his head that promised to be as blonde as his mothers when he was grown.

What was not to be expected was how small and fragile the body of the child was as it wriggled and grappled in the woman's gentle grip. The wet nurse, who was fondly called Elizabeta, focused her eyes on the babies protruding belly, the gentle curl of the umbilical cord sliding and withering around like a dead snake. Elizabeta took a sharp sigh of the smoky room that was burning brightly from the many amassed torches that shook with the howling of the wind.

She motioned with her had quickly to another nurse, a young Ukrainian girl no more than fourteen who shyly approached the wet nurse and the baby, her hands curled in on themselves from nervousness.

"Hurry now Katyusha, he has yet to breathe..." The Hungarian woman spoke quietly, her voice taking on a bit of worriment as she traced her fingers along the cheeks of the small baby, the color of his skin turning a bit blue. The brunette bit her lip in nervousness as the babe still would not open his eyes... This child will die if he does not take a breath...

Elizabeta thought with urgency as the young Ukrainian girl returned from the corner of the stoned mortared room with a small knife, the blade edged sharply, like the plume from a hawk. With shaking fingers the young short haired girl, with the assistance of the older woman, cut the umbilical cord with a low slither of the blade, the babe wriggling free as another wet nurse went to work with dispatching the unneeded fleshly cord.

The Hungarian then, with quick and trained fingers, went to work with the child. The young prince of Finland's cheeks were already taking of frighting blueish hue, like the flesh from a blueberry. Alarmed with fright the Hungarian quickly paced the swaddled and sickeningly quiet babe against her knee, bending him over till she gave his small little rump a quick slap. Still the babe was silent, chocking quietly from lack of air.

Elizabeta's eyes widened as she tried again, hitting the boy a bit harder on the rump—still he remained deadly silent. She swallowed thickly, fearing the worst. He palm smacked him again and again and still he would not cry or scream. Something was terribly wrong.

"Where is my child? Bring him to me..." The weak and fluttery voice of the Queen of Finland commanded, her eyes scanning over to the Hungarian woman who was running her hands quickly and haphazardly over the young babes chest, trying to feel a heart beat, a pulse—anything.

Elizabeta made a small noise in the back of her throat as she tried again and again to hit the child into crying, spitting, wailing—anything. Still he remained mockingly still. She was loosing him, slowly and surely, the Prince of Finland was suffocating.

Katyusha, sensing something was amidst, trotted over to her teacher's side, her shaking hands working as well to coax the baby into breathing. Katyusha began to loosen the babes swaddled, hoping to help his lungs to take in more air. As Elizabeta smacked his back with a dull thud, the Ukrainian girl began to pry his lips open with her fingers, her eyes beginning to sting with tears. The babe was not going to survive the winter night at this rate.

"I am sorry Ma'm... He does not take breath!" Elizabeta cried out desperately, the other wet nurses rushing to her side with warmed swatches of cloth and a small wooden switch used to swat children on their behinds when they did not behave.

"What do you mean he does not breathe!" The Queen shouted hysterically, sitting up from her bed, the covers around her frail and sweating body shifting like waves from a heated sea. The woman's violet eyes grew wide as she caught sight of her still baby, her hands flitting over her mouth as her lips wailed into cries. Next it was her husband to shout with alarm.

The King of Finland's voice was deep and booming, like a tidal wave that made all the handmaidens cringe with fear. The torches along the wall fluttered from the blinding and whirling snow outside, the King's voice being swallowed by the wild December winds.

"By all the Gods my son will live! I do not care if you must enchant him with the wickedness of Gullveig! He will live and he will be king! Do what you must!"* He growled out, his hands gripping his wife's frail ones as she cried on, her body twisting into the froth of flaxen blankets.

The King's tired and red rimmed eyes bore into Elizabeta as she nodded. She vowed to help the babe with quiet breath, her fingers straining against his frail body.

"Katyusha! Hurry and try to get his eyes to open!" The Hungarian woman shouted at the younger girl who was looking as if she might burst out into tears at any moment, the situation too much to even bare any more. Elizabeta clenched her teeth together and yanked the girl froward by her shoulders.

"Breathe into his eyes! Make them flutter child, lest this young lad die in the clutches of Hel!"* The Hungarian woman shouted out with heated breath, her words none to kind. The young Ukrainian, sobering herself with the hastily spoken words, nodded shakily before her fingers cupped against the babies fattened and blue tinted cheeks, his eyes curled closed. Carefully she began to blow, whispering encouraging words in Ukrainian to beg the child to live.

Once that was taken care of, Elizabeta then raised the switch made from the branches of the scared ash tree. She held it above her head and, her eyes stinging with tears, brought it down on the babes rump with a harsh Slap!

All was silent inside the small little birthing room. The wind had ceased to howl, the torches had ceased to crackle, the Hall had ceased to groan. The only flicker of a noise was the small, cooing noise of a tiny cry.

Elizabeta held her hands at her sides, the ash sapling dropping from her bone white fingers with a soft thud as it landed on the hay strewn floor. The candles blew and smoke slithered upward to the tapestry strewn walls as the Ukrainian girl, with one last blow to the child's snow white lashes, stepped backward, her eyes impossibly wide. Her breath quieted as she looked up to Elizabeta.

Suddenly, like a gift from the Gods above, the little eye lashes began to flutter and wrinkle before they slid open slowly, like a flower gazing up to the sun for the first time.

He had his mothers eyes. Like shinning amethyst they were, bright and innocent. Glassy, like the mirrored lakes when the stars embrace them in their touch. His chubby face began to fade back into a natural pinkish shade as his soft and rosy lipped mouth began to gasp and gulp. His hands grabbed at the warming air, the bitter cold from the snow storm outside not biting into his pale smooth skin yet. Elizabeta could only laugh quietly, her voice thick with sobs before she cradled the young boy to her breasts, the child cooing and squirming.

The Hungarian woman, with a smile on her face, lightly pressed the now swaddled babe into the arms of his mother. The Queen of Finland could only stared as her eyes widened, her lips that were once strewn into sadness, breathing a quick breath of delight.

The King of Finland was also pleased as he held his son's small hand against his palms, the babe wrapping his soft fingers around his fathers thumb. The King could only chuckle as the other hand began to root it's way into his fathers beard, smiling with bubbling innocence at the feel of the bristly mane.

The child's eyes became impossibly wide as they took in the bright sensation of the new world that enveloped him. A world of warmth, a world of cold. A world of dangers, a world of love. A world, of wild roses...

"What should we call him?" The King's wife choked out, her breathing becoming unreliable as she looked into the sweet face of her only son. The babe simply crooned and sniffed, his eyes gazing up at the warming and tear strewn faces of his parents, his violet eyes shimmering like bright jewels, worth more than any kingdom.

The King of Finland sighed softly as he placed his large hand over his son's brow, the babe sliding his eyes shut with gentleness as he pushed into the warming touch of his fathers hand.

"Tino is a fine name, a strong name." He murmured beneath his breath, his eyes trained lovingly on his new son. His wife smiled and nodded weakly, her arms curled around the babe with sweetness as he began to root his small and feeble hands into the blankets that surrounded him like a starry veil.

"Then that will be his name... Tino, Tino Väinämöinen."

The Prince of Finland, would live.

….

Or so they would have thought...

After the struggled birth of the Prince of Finland, the weary villagers could not but feel hope grow in their hearts. They anticipated with bated breath that the young Prince titled 'Tino' would live to take his fathers place on the throne when the old king took his long and final sleep into the land of the dead. Long had the country needed an heir to the throne when his father would pass into the next world, and on that bitter cold and snowing winter night, when the young Finn with the violet eyes like his mother had come into the world without a breath in his lungs—well, it alarmed everyone in the Kingdom of the Finns.

But, after much coaxing, the child had taken breath and his frail and pale body was filled with life to his parents desperate delight. There was not a more happier family in all the land of Finland. The birds sang everyday to the laughter and smiles of the three nobles. The sun shone brightly on the innocent face of the Prince and the stars at night twinkled with a lullaby just for Tino.

Tino's mother, resting from her time being in labor, would let Tino suckle from her breast as she stroked his pale and shining hair. She would often sing to him and cradle him in her arms like any loving mother would. Yet the winter was still heavy in the air and almost everyone within the great Halls of the Kingdom felt it seep into their bones and into their woolen tunics and leather boots. The unbearable winds raked against their coats and bit at their noses—resulting in most of the servants growing ill with cold or numbness. Many were sent home to their meager farms and halls to take to their sick bed—for no measure was too great in keeping the health of the Prince of Finland strong. His parents had already lost him once, they would not lose him again.

But the Gods were often cruel to the land of men, and they deemed it fit to try the spirits and sanity's of the happy and content monarchs of Finland.

One night, when the yellow and red winter sun had gone down in a blur of smokey purple and the moon was high above the trees, the young Prince of Finland began to wail and cough from his small sheep skinned crib at the foot of his parents bed.

It was not custom for the child to sleep in the same room as the parents, but the King and Queen of Finland were already greatly worried about their son's health. They made an exception, placing the ceder carved crib against the foot of the bed, wrapping the babe in seal furs each and every night to keep the chill off of him. Winter was not a good month for babies to be born, as the icy cold usually killed them within the first weeks of their lives. Many children did not grow into maturity, and Tino had already been cursed with a struggle filled birth... There was no telling if the child would even live to see his early teens...

But on that night, when the wind howled it's fiercest, like the hungry and snapping wolf Fenrir, the Queen of Finland was woken with a start as the walls of the monarchs bedroom began to ring with wails and cries, muffled and choking.* The wind howled outside and the snow drifted in sheets along the stone and wood cut window that was not framed by glass, but by shards of ice.

Lady Jaana woke first, the necklace's against her breast jingling and shuffling as her cold arms hugged her body to her. Her frock, knitted of warm wool, slithered as she sighed into the air. She had to admit, she did not like waking up in the middle of the night to feed the babe as much as she could—but the task must be done. She simply would not rely on handmaidens and wet nurses to feed her baby, no matter how convenient. Tino would not drink from a strangers breast, her son was too precious to her to be tainted by another woman's milk.

She was still very tired and weary from the birth of her son a few weeks ago, and her ears were not as quick as they once were before—but she could still hear the unmistakable muffled cries of her babe from his crib.

Tying her hair back with a bit of sinew, the woman shuffled her feet from under the heavy sheep skins and flaxen blankets to place her nimble feet on the straw strewn floor, the hay doing little to bite away the cold from the room. She plucked a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around her slender shoulders like a shawl before she stumbled in the dark over to the wriggling babe. The blanket did nothing to still her shivering body.

She knelt down near the crib, her eyes tired as she scanned the wide eyed gaze of her babe, his glassy violet eyes shining from the light from the moon that shifted in from the open window. She thought she remembered closing the window with a scrap of leather and nail—apparently not...

She frowned and looked back to Tino who was still crying, his chest heaving up and down, his toothless mouth opened and gasping. Lady Jaana frowned as she scooped up her dear child into her arms, the baby squeaking with raspy breath as he cried, his body cold to the bone. Lady Jaana's eyes immediately widened as she held her baby to the warmth of her breast, her eyes darting around in the solid blackness of the bedroom chambers.

The wind howled along with the baby's persistent rasping and Lady Jaana could only hold the babe to her chest tighter as her eyes bit into tears, her thin lips wringing into a frown of despair.

Something was terribly wrong...

Quickly, with shuffling steps, she made her way to her husband's side of the bed, the King of Finland snoring lightly in his sleep, his beard muffling the noise some.

Queen Jaana bit her lip as she reached out with a pale hand, her bony fingers wringing themselves into her husband's tunic, shaking him slightly.

The King only mumbled in his sleep and licked his lips, his eyes remaining shut as he slept. The Queen began to grow more alarmed. No longer could she hear the babies cries, but him instead gasping for breath. She looked down at Tino, at his soft hair, and watched his cheeks grow blue. Tino was dying—her baby was dying!

With a low sob she grabbed a fist full of her husband's tunics and wrenched them up with her hands, her husbands eyes fluttering open as he rolled up from his side, eyes blinking in the darkness.

"Jaana, what is wrong my love?" The King asked out into the tangible darkness with grogginess. His eyes were watery and his mouth was slack as he yawned. It was only when he caught the wide and panicked look in his wife's eyes that he sat up suddenly, his hands at her arms.

"My dear! What is wrong! What torments you so?" King Mauno asked, his eyes concerned as they flicked over the bundle that was wheezing in his wife's arms. He swallowed thickly and blinked.

"Our—Our Son!" Jaana hiccuped, her voice on the brink of sobbing like a little child. Mauno looked up at the bundle. It was shaking and wriggling, as if the child was trying to get more air into his little lungs.

"Oh by the Gods!" The Finnish King whispered with strife as his eyes quivered over the sight of his slowly withering son. The babes head was lulling from his mothers arms, his violet eyes impossibly wide—like the winter moon.

The King immediately threw his blankets from his body and swung his feet onto the hay covered floor, his body aching from the cold of the opened window. He gritted his teeth and stood up in one quick movement, his back arching as he grabbed for his wife's arms, Jaana helping her aging husband to his feet.

The Finnish king, once finding his footing, quickly struggled to the heavy oaken doors that were guarded with heavy locks of iron. His fingers fumbled over the locks as his thick hands began to jumble the mess of iron, the locks clinking and clanking sickly.

The Queen, still rocking the babe in her arms, only fretted more as her husband struggled with the locks, the cracked window at her back, the cold and hurtful winds biting against her flesh, making her tears stain against her lovely face that was now contorted with grief.

Finally, with much struggle on King Mauno's part, the locks gave way and with a heavy groan, the door unfettered itself and pushed open, the slab of wood grating along the dirt floor of the longhouse.

Once free, the two nobles and their coughing and gasping son ran down the corridor, their heated yells for help catching the ears of the guards stationed in the hallway. Quickly, the Finnish guards blinked their eyes open and gave attention to the two noble's who, with heated breath, gasped a single name into the whispering Halls of the great Finnish Kingdom.

"Tino...Tino...Oh Dear Gods Tino..." Queen Jaana breathed and cried shamelessly, even the King's watery gaze sliding a few tears down his scarred and bristly cheeks.

…

A half and hour had passed as Elizabeta did her best to coax the child's lungs to open and his breathing to return to normal. She had pattered warm wet scraps of cloth to his chest, wrapped him in a steaming froth of heat and blankets, but still his body was bone chillingly cold, his cheeks growing paler by the moment. Elizabeta frowned as she tried to coax a warm dipper of milk past his lips—the child would not swallow. He only spit it up and wailed louder, his chest heaving up and down painfully, eyes sliding open and shut like the frantic fluttering of a moth's wings. Elizabeta sighed wiped her sweat drenched brow.

They had lit the high set cauldrons with a mass of flames, stuffing the iron pots to the brim with dried kindling. The cauldrons swung from heavy chains, the huge metal rimmed troughs bigger than any cauldron that brewed in the hall of the great God Aegir.*

The room was sweltering with heat as the fires swung from the air by weighty chains, as this as a man's arm, yet it did little to warm the pale body of the little Finn. Still the baby withered and cried, still his heart beat remained faint. Elizabeta frowned and pressed her fingers against his chest, the baby curling in on himself, his eyes struggling to stay open. He was a like a broken dove that had been left out in the cold for too long...

Elizabeta pulled her fingers back with sorrow as she sat on her knees above the baby, her head clasped into her hands. She began to sob and wipe her tears on her green frock, the baby making garbled noises into the smoky air of the room. There was nothing she could do for this child. He was choking on his own raspy breath, on the coldness from inside his lungs that spread like an icy web, stretching over his heart. He would be dead by the first roosters crow...

Elizabeta looked down at the cooing and wheezing babe that she had helped bring into the world. She looked down at his crown of soft glowing hair, his bright and sweet little eyes. She looked into that innocent face that had done the world no harm—and cried. For that was all she could do. The Crown of Finland would have no heir...

...

The King and Queen of Finland were nervously waiting outside the stone walls of the nursery. Their breathing hummed in their throats as they choked and sobbed. Their fingers twisted into each others as they promised with saddened looks in their yes that—not mater what happened—the Gods always had a plan. The land of men would suffer from the loss of the Prince of Finland, but they would go on... With time, they might be able to accept the thought of their son dying... But...Tonight, when they had only had the babe for a mere few weeks? It was unbearable for the King and Queen of Sweden. Rulers they were—but parents they were first. No amount of royal blood in their veins could stop the shameless tears from coming into their faces like heavy and icy drops of water.

The tapestries of great lions and birds flowed without purpose against the stone and thatched walls of the great Hall. The shuffling of feet moaned and groaned into the sadden silence of the air. The hall was dark save for the torches huddled round the regal bodies of the Queen and King, their guards at their sides. The cold air bit at everyone around them and entreated the sour air of the Hall to silence.

The hunting dogs, sensing that something was wrong, sat by the feet of their masters. King Mauno, too distraught to even pat the dogs on the head, settled for staring with watery blue eyes at the dirt laden floor. Everyone was dismal as they waited outside the small door. All the servants had taken off their leather hats and stood around the hallway, looking sullen and sad, the freshly lit torches blowing smoke in their already wet eyes.

It was only when the heavy door began to shift that everyone strained and stood up, their eyes finding purpose on the door with heavy glances. With a few hesitant seconds, Elizabeta, wearing a narrow and blank face, walked out from behind the door, her skirts ruffled, hands balled into tight fists that made her hands burn a bone white. Her eyes were red rimmed and pink as she walked over to the King. She did not speak, only motioned with a quick flick of her wrist for the mighty King of Finland to stand and come with her.

King Mauno swallowed thickly and looked to his wife. Queen Jaana's eyes were strewn with tears as she bit off a sob and wrapped her arms around the young Ukrainian handmaiden who was also crying, her eyes shining bright in the dimly lit hall. The young girl pressed The Queen to her bosom and gave her as much comfort as she could, trying her best to pull herself together with no avail.

After rising, King Mauno was led inside the blisteringly warm room that housed the little baby.

The Finnish King was relieved to hear the sounds of the babe crying, letting him know that his son was still in the world of men and not down below on the shores of the dead.

But, the Hungarian's face did nothing to bring hope to his eyes and he quietly sighed, walking stiffly over to the crib that held the gasping and shivering babe.

Tino's eyes had now twisted shut as he squirmed and opened his mouth like a gaping fish, his body twisting in several heat soaked wraps. Runes had been carved along the edges of his crib to help ease the illness, but not even the power of the Gods seemed to help the poor innocent child.*

"Will he die?" Mauno asked quietly, his words choking past his lips as he looked into the face of his little boy, his little Prince.

Elizabeta swallowed harshly, her eyes diverting against the Kings intent gaze. She looked to the babe and a sad and painful look crossed over her now tarnished green eyes.

"He will be dead by morning. Even if there was some miracle that he did live—his life would be filled with sickness and struggle." Elizabeta spoke quietly, bowing her head low to the King in this time of grief.

King Mauno sighed through gritted teeth and nodded, rubbing his eyes with his hands, his fingers shaking.

"Then there is only one thing to do..." He breathed out with regret, his voice suddenly taking on a stern tone as he placed his hands inside the ceder crib. Elizabeta's eyes widened as the Finnish King lifted up the babe in his arms and stared into those shut eyes, the lashes fluttering against the babes paled and bluish skin.

"My Lord—surely you would not—you couldn't! He is your son!" Elizabeta asked with disbelief as the King cradled the wriggling body of his son to his chest. The King's eyes began to grow cold as he looked down at the Hungarian.

"You are but a Midwife. How dare you lecture me—the King!" The King barked out viciously, his own grief taking over his usually cheery features. Elizabeta shrunk back, realizing that she had over stepped her boundaries. She quickly bowed in apologies to the grieving king before she bit her lip, her hands wringing around themselves behind her back.

"I am sorry my good King, I only meant that, well—perhaps a miracle could be preformed! There are many a wise women in the village, ones with power over spells and herbal knowledge. I am only a Midwife—I know nothing of the gift of magic...Perhaps, they may be allowed to help your son? Perhaps he will live?" She spoke softly, her eyes not daring to meet the King in the face.

King Mauno scowled.

"Even if he was to live, he'd be a sickly thing. I need no room in my throne for a sallow child, no matter if he is my son. The country deserves better..." He said with the inklings of regret as he hardened his jaw.

Then, with a quick movement he pierced his gaze to Elizabeta for a final time before he turned to the oaken door was the glowing from the flames in the heated room.

"Besides. You know this has been a tradition in our culture since the times of Old—when the Sea gave birth to the first Goddess who gave birth to the first man! It is a tradition that must be abide by... No matter how many hearts it pains. The child is not fit, therefore..."* King Mauno's voice dropped into silence as he looked down at his son. Those tiny little hands, those sweet little lips that were gasping for breath, that soft crown of hair as soft as a doves wings. He had to look into the face of his innocent and sick son and simply harden his gaze. The rule of a King could not be weak. A fathers love was no exception. He had to do what was best for the country, regardless of how it would tear his heart in two.

"...Therefore...The child must die..." His voice whispered into the crackling of the room as his gaze shifted back to the door. Without another word the King began to take heavy steps to the latches of the barricade, his other arm cradling the crying and coughing child who would not open his violet eyes. The King could not look down at the boy, for fear of breaking down into tears. This had to be done, for the good of the country. A sickly child was something not to be tolerated. It meant he could not function in society. If Tino grew up to be physically weak, he could not be able to take the throne. Invaders would come and steal the beautiful land of Finland one by one. Finland did not need the guidance of a sickly King. Tino would never take the throne—he just wouldn't have the strength to.

As King Mauno pushed open the doors, he was met by a throng of eager and watery eyes that bore into him with such intensity that he could only clench his jaws tighter together.

At the sight of the babe in his arms, the crowd visibly relaxed, their smiles returning. They thought the Grand King of the Finn's had come to show off the new attained health of his son. They thought Tino would live... They thought the young babe would live...

It was only Lady Jaana who looked up at her husband with wide and startled eyes, like a deer that had just been shot by an arrow, straight into it's heart. She let out a soft breath as she lightly craned her neck up to meet her husbands eyes. Her mouth slowly parted, eyes wild. She let a small moan of terror slip from her mouth.

"No...No...You can't...Not my baby...! Ei minu Vauva! Not my baby!"* She shrieked, her voice ringing in the halls as she tried to sit up with struggle, her arms extending to grab at her husband's cloak and night shirt. Katyusha and several other midwives and handmaidens had to grab at their mistress and hold her down as she shamelessly cried and yelled, her hair framing her small face as tears roared down her violet eyes—eyes so much like her sons.

The King frowned with sadness before he regained his composure and looked ahead of the corridor with sharp set eyes, his footsteps doing their best to free themselves from his wife's clawing. But Lady Jaana was fueled by distress and hysterics. She screamed at the top of her lungs, shouting insults at the Gods—at the spirits that were supposed to protect her babe. The spirits that had failed her. She shouted and she cursed the halls that rung around the property. She cursed it all and screamed from the top of her frail lungs before she could breathe no more—only being able to watch with a wrenched heart as her husband began to walk down the halls, down a throng of villagers who bent low to the ground, men with sorrow filled gaze, women with tears dirtying their faces.

King Mauno walked down the milled mass of people and pressed Tino closely to his heart, feeling the babe shudder again with a forced breath, his heart beat fluttering madly like a dying bird without wings.

"Oh Gods...My baby...My baby! Tino, Tino!" Lady Jaana called with howls of grief as her husband walked down the low lipped stairs of the long house, his eyes sliding shut with pain at his wife's maddening cry's. He gritted his teeth and stood outside the door to the Great Hall that marveled everything in the land of the Finn's. More beautiful than a throng of blossomed apple trees, more shinning than a fishes whitened belly, more grander than a bears great strength.

It was the Kingdom, the hall that King Mauno wanted to give to his son. But now... Now there was no hope for that. Tino would be left to die in the old ways of the Norse.* If he was not fit to live, then he was only fit to die.

Scowling slightly, King Mauno pressed his hands on the great and ornate locks of the hall that guarded his wife and he. He sighed with heavy breath as he pushed open the door, the wood grating with mocking.

The Finnish King closed his eyes tight as the sting of the winter winds beat against him unmercifully. The Snow and sleet cared nothing for the grieving man. They only wished to steal the very breath from his babes lungs—and King Mauno was going to let them do just that.

Bracing himself against the fierce Finnish snows, he trudged through the snow, his boots disappearing into the snow with sunken steps as he waded through the water like ice. He bit at his lips and held the child close to him, the baby crying desperately from the cold that invaded his already icy cheeks.

"I am sorry my son, but the Gods do not seem fit to hold you in the land of men no longer. I only hope the Goddess Hel takes pity on you, Prince of Finland..." Tino's father breathed out with sorrow as he neared the middle patch of snow that was drooping along the scattered branches of some ash trees. King Mauno, deciding that the shelter of the sacred trees might bring his son luck in the land beyond men, laid the child down along the crystal snow*

His breath scattered from his lips in puffs of smoky white as his chilled fingers began to dig into the snow, his hands cupping the shards of ice till his fingers began to bleed and run red.

After the little gorge in the snow was made, the King picked up his infant son once more before he stared into the closed eyes of the babe, the child stopping his crying, to cold to even shiver. The King, regret filling his heart, pressed his cold lips to the child's brow, kissing his son goodbye before he placed the tiny cold body into the snow.

The child wriggled in his swaddles and wrappings, his face staining blue and pink as he made soft whimpers and gasps for breaths.

"Anteeksi... Forgive me my son..."* King Mauno breathed into the chilly air before he dared stand up. He shook the snow from his shoulders and said a silent prayer for the sacred Ash trees to guard his son's body well, so that the wolves and ravens would not fell upon the babe and rip him open.

After that there was nothing left to say, nothing left to do. He would leave his son out to die. That was it.

The King sighed and, with pained step, made his way back into the glowing Hall. The hearth fires would do nothing to warm his icy heart now...

…...

Ew, mention of live births! Poor Tino! What will happen to him! Do not worry, though the mean Dolphins want Tino to die, I won't let him...Maybe. But you must stick around to see if he lives! PLEASE REVIEW! I LIVE OFF OF THEMMMM! (This story is not going to be as descriptive as my others, simply because it's just a pain in the ass to write, but I will still make it enjoyable and entertaining. I promise!)

Authors Notes:

-"By all the Gods my son will live! I do not care if you must enchant him with the wickedness of Gullveig! He will live and he will be king! Do what you must!"*-'Gullveig' was a Seer and an enchantress in Norse Mythology who was lustful for gold. She pitted the two groups of Norse Gods again teach other till they reduced the Walls of Asgard (home of the Gods) to ruins. She is not one to be trusted.

-"Breathe into his eyes! Make them flutter child, lest this young lad die in the clutches of Hel!"*-'Hel' is the Norse version of Hel. I don't think there is a heaven unless you are a God or a Warrior. Other people just go to Hel. It was a dank and dark wet place guarded by the half rotting Goddess named Hel.

-But on that night, when the wind howled it's fiercest, like the hungry and snapping wolf Fenrir, the Queen of Finland was woken with a start as the walls of the monarchs bedroom began to ring with wails and cries, muffled and choking.*-Fenrir was the son of Loki(The Trickster God who would later lead an army against the Gods at the end of the world.) Fenrir was a wolf and was bound by the Gods because they feared his strength. At the end of the world he will Swallow the Norse God Odin whole.

-The cauldrons swung from heavy chains, the huge metal rimmed troughs bigger than any cauldron that brewed in the hall of the great God Aegir.* -Aegir was the God of the Sea and, due to a promise, would entertain the Gods in his hall with huge cauldrons of Ale.

-Runes had been carved along the edges of his crib to help ease the illness, but not even the power of the Gods seemed to help the poor innocent child.* –'Runes' are an alphabet that was used most commonly in Norwegian and British history; they are still used today by Pagans everywhere, though they are mostly associated with the use of magic and diviniation now.

-"Besides. You know this has been a tradition in our culture since the times of Old—when the Sea gave birth to the first Goddess who gave birth to the first man! It is a tradition that must be abide by... No matter how many hearts it pains. The child is not fit, therefore..."*- In Finnish Mythology, the Sky created a woman Goddess out of the waves and she became the skys daughter. She was imporegnated by the sea and, while she was in labor, a duck landed on her knee and laid eggs on her knee. The eggs grew so hot that the Goddess kicked her feet up and the eggs cracked and the shells became the land, the yolk became the sun. Then, her son sprang forth from her womb a grown man. His name was Väinämöinen, and he was the Finnish God-hero. That my freinds, is the Finnish creation myth.

-"No...No...You can't...Not my baby...! Ei minu Vauva! Not my baby!"*- Rough translation is Rough. 'Ei minu Vauva!'='Not my baby!' in Finnish.

-It was the Kingdom, the hall that King Mauno wanted to give to his son. But now... Now there was no hope for that. Tino would be left to die in the old ways of the Norse.*- THIS IS LEGIT SHIT RIGHT HERE. Viking's were know for being brutal and tough. When a child was born, at the age of five they would be groomed to work along side the adults. The girls would spend time with aunts and grandmothers, learning how to cook and take care of the home. The boys were sent to live with uncles and grandfathers and learned to fight, make weapons and boats, plant crops, and build homes. If a child appeard sick at birth, they were immediately left to die outside. The family could not afford to feed a sick child. It became more of a tradition and a way of weeding out the weak from the strong. (Though Finland technically didn't have a viking culture)

-King Mauno, deciding that the shelter of the sacred trees might bring his son luck in the land beyond men, laid the child down along the crystal snow*-Ash trees were sacred in Norse Mythology, as the great tree Yggdrasil that held up the many worlds of Gods and men was a huge Ash tree.

-"Anteeksi... Forgive me my son..."*-'Forgive me'-Finnish. HELLA ROUGH TRANSLATION.


	3. The Drink Of Roses

Here is the third chapter! Perfectly fitted since it's pretty much snowing outside the itty bitty little cabin that I'm writing this in! I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia or it's characters! I'd like to thank my lovely Swedish/Finish/Russian translators, MalinChan, yotzie, Ruusu, and Kooliobutterflyhahaha!.Thank you so much guys! 3 I love you lots! Now, the Plot of this story is based off of the song, 'Herr Holkin' by the Swedish Folk band Garmarna. If you want spoilers, listen to the song lyrics if you don't want spoilers, listen to the song without the lyrics—but well. If you can understand Swedish, well. You're getting the spoilers either way! ^^" PLEASE REVIEW OR ELSE THE DOLHPINS WILL RUN OFF WITH MAH SPLEEN!

…...

His feet were numb by the time his little fingers, still clutching his precious cargo to his chest, slammed the stable door open with a loud bang! The eaves of hay began to shake as dust was dispersed throughout the stables, the frightful noise waking up the inhabitants. Human and horse began to shake asleep with yawns and stamps of hands and hooves. Yet, when the dust cleared, so did the annoyed tempers at being woken up from a much needed rest.

It was Nikolas' eyes that widened first, the blue slates of his gaze catching the rough bundle between the Swede's arms, Berwald himself looking absolutely shell shocked beyond belief. In a flash, the young Norwegian raised himself with his hands, his tunics covered with stitching's of hay, smudges of either dirt or lack of sleep present under his ice blue eyes.

"Berwald...Berwald, what is that? What is it that you have in your hands?" Nikolas spoke, his voice flustered with fear as he scrambled toward the Swede who had finally taken his first steps into the mild warmth of the stables, the Icelandic ponies round him began to crane their necks towards his straw like hair to take a nip—yet Berwald was steady on his course, his mouth held tight. Nikolas, fearing that his friend had come into contact with a menacing snow sprite who had somehow bewitched him, quickly trotted over to his friend, Mathias by now realizing something was wrong as well.

"What's he got, Norge? Some food?" Mathias asked, rubbing his knuckles over his eyes to dispel the few flakes of sleep that still clung dearly to the Danish boys eyes.

But Nikolas was too busy with trying to get Berwald to talk, to blink to breathe. The Norwegians now cold and white hands were gripped tightly to Berwalds' forearms, the Swedish boys fingers gnarled like tree roots as they hugged the shivering blanket to his chest. Nikolas' face began to drain of all color as, whispering kind words like one would to a deaf dog, began to lead Berwald to a few flame lit candles, Nikolas hoping that the little warmth would help to melt his friends stern and awfully fearful silent state.

"What's a'matter Waldy? Run into a Troll or something?" Mathias asked, kneeling down before his supposed friend, Berwald doing his best to not lunge at the Danish boy with all his might and throw him to the ground like he damn well deserved. But now was not the time for seeking revenge—now was the time to focus. Focus on this cryptic gift, this chance in a life time—this glorious find.

Berwald was sure this was part of his fate—part of his destiny. For, who else but him, a lone young lad, angry with petty strife, walking through the snow misted meadows, happen upon a babe in the ice? And not just any babe, but a Prince. And not just any Prince, but the Prince of Finland. Berwald suddenly shivered, reminding himself that this blessing could very well become a danger in disguise.

For then again, who was he, a lonely boy, outside of his own country, his own kinsman, to stumble upon the Prince of Finland and do what? What did he do? The King has obviously set his son to die within the perfect crystals of snow—simply because of what? Because the child appeared to be faulty? Because he whined a bit too much, cried a bit more then was normal, coughed more raggedly then other children did? Coughed more raggedly...coughed...Oh Dear Gods! He was ill! The Prince was sick—was—he could even be on the verge of death's stony clutches!

At this struck of realization, Berwald, who until this time had been ignoring Nikolas' protests and patience in trying to loosen Berwalds' claw like hands from the bundle, opened his eyes wide. A moment to breathe, to fill up his lungs before he could think, yell, scream. A moment to realize what had to be done.

"Berwald? Berwald...? Are you alright? Berwald!" Nikolas' voice's was not rising above a smooth and collective whisper, becoming more and more frantic with every blink of Berwalds' eyes until the Norwegian could take it no longer. With a thrust of his hands he balled his hands into the Swede's mice bitten tunic and gnashed his teeth together, Nikolas always the scary one when angry.

"Berwald! Berwald—I need to know what is going on! Let me help you! Please!" Nikolas begged, his fingers being pulled away by Mathias, a worried look in the Danes eyes. Björt had come to the small haphazard circle the three boys were now making next to the wax clotting candles, the smoke billowing up, making it much more easier to shed tears than it should have.

"Is he possessed—A Trolls Magic perhaps? Maybe he'll turn into a turnip!" Mathias cackled, his worried voice being crushed under foot with his simple laughter—that is, before he was none too lightly punched in the arm by Nikolas, and angry scowl on the Norwegians face.

"'Tis no work of a Troll—No. I fear he has seen something, he knows something..." Nikolas murmured, eying his Swedish friend who was now coming too, eyes looking less dead and misty ,less like a flopping fish on the banks.

With a forced swallow of his throat, Berwalds' lips began to produce words without his telling them to, his eyes blinking back weariness and fear before he quickly shook his head, snapping his neck to the right to look Nikolas in the eyes dead on.

"Aye. I know somethin', somethin' a' great import'nce..." He mumbled, the snow storm outside muffling his voice some.

"An' what is it that ye' know?" Mathias asked suddenly, his eyes thrown into thin slits as he too began to eye the clutched bundle in the Swede's arms.

"He's dyin'—th' Finnish Prince is dyin'!" Berwald suddenly sounded out, his fingers loosening some from the parcel in his lap.

Nikolas frowned then, his brows knitted to show confusion. He brought his cold little hands to rest themselves on Berwalds' shoulders, the Swede suddenly clenching back on the bundle in his hands that now began to shake more frantically.

"Berwald, the Prince of Finland is not dying—he is dead. We all know this." Nikolas spoke carefully, calmly, the bundle in the sweaty blanket beginning to wriggle and squirm, alarming the Norwegian to no end.

"What's he got there?" Björt asked with a twitch of his nose, his hands trying to run themselves over the collection of itchy wool.

Berwald swallowed harshly then, releasing his hold altogether on the blanketed thing, the creature that surely must be alive since the blanket wriggled like a fish caught in a fishers reel.

The blanket massed at Berwalds' feet began to unravel as the creature lightly slipped from the blanket to rest in the hay, it's crying little self catching an array of eyes—making them widen with disbelief and sudden fear.

"A Troll's baby!" Mathias hollered with a whoop, his eyes bright.

Berwald suddenly frowned as his eyes grew stern, his hands reaching out for the child, wrapping him quickly back up in the corners of the thick and weighty blanket that smelled of horse hair and leather.

"Tis no Trolls' kin! It's is a Finn! A mortal child!" Berwald half shouted, now weary of even showing his find off, his concern for the child now driven by jealousy and obsessiveness. How dare Mathias compare this beautiful and innocent child to that of a donkey eared Troll! It was a crime against all things good in this world! Why—this child was as sweet and fair as the wild roses that grew near the rocks and fields. He could certainly not be compared to that of a Troll!

"Aye, he be mortal alright, by the Gods he has no time left in his little heart—look at tha' way he squirms! Seems ta' me he might have the colic!" Mathias spoke, his words none the less pitiable, able to give Berwald some relief from his grief.

Yet it was Nikolas who spoke next, shooing Mathias from near the child's side, fluttering his hands above the little babes head, the infants eyes not yet ready to open nor his mouth able to make a fitting cry to the stillness of the stable.

"It is not colic that fits this child with pain—perhaps the cold was not good to him—we need to do our best to help such a poor thing." Nikolas mumbled, stripping the child of the sweaty horse blanket and replacing it with a good thick layer of scarfs and a few tattered remains of what once was a lovely white shawl. Berwald, like a mother hen holding for dear life to her baby, would only let Nikolas go so far as to touch the child lightly before his voice began to choke, his eyes stinging.

"This child, it was not th' cold a' winter that first ailed 'em—though it now worsens 'em un'doubt'dly." Berwald murmured, hugging the child close, the baby beginning to hum with a wheezing noise through his nose, his eyes remaining shut as tight as a clam awaiting the threat of an ocean storm.

"Then what is it that harms him? A sickness of fever?" Nikolas asked frantically, his hands working to root around the beds of straw beneath a low wooden crate, half of the wood having been splintered off last summer when Mathias threw a tantrum and kicked it into a wall.

But that did not matter now, Nikolas reminded himself as his fingers began to grab at the lip of something iron and smooth—a small little finger bowl that had fallen into their possession many months ago.

With barely even a breath in his lungs, Nikolas began to bark out orders, his hands working to scrape the gathered dust from the bowl as he instructed Björt and Mathias to find something to drink—water, milk, ale—anything, so long as it wasn't honey. For that could kill the young unknown lad.

Berwald himself was given the job of trying to get the baby to open his mouth, cooing in Swedish before resorting to broken Finnish, trying his best to get the babe to open his damned mouth—to live, to breathe!

"How do ya' know he's Finnish?" Mathias asked Berwald as he crawled over to the Swede, his eyes sparkling.

"How do ya' know he understands ya'?" Mathias asked again, pouring his spoils—a bit of goats milk that he had placed outside the snow eaves to keep chill in the ice—into the iron bowl. (He was going to offer the milk to Nikolas as a sign of his adolescent love for the young Norwegian but nooo! He had to give it to some snotty little brat who Waldy just happened to find. Terrific!)

Berwald suddenly frowned, liking the Danes company less and less. "I know he's Finnish..." Because he's the Heir to the Finnish throne... Berwald mumbled insistently, his breath hot and annoyed as Mathias only rolled his eyes and glared at the Swede.

He helped to raise the child's squirming and crooning head up as Nikolas took the bowl of milk from the Dane and began to guide it to the lips of the child, his little pink lips pursed, the milk dribbling down his blue tinted cheeks.

"He will not take milk..." Nikolas bit his lip into worry, his hands carefully cleaning the child's face of the cooled milk. Berwald himself frowned as well, is fear making a turn for the worse. What I this child died in his arms? What if this innocence, this beauty was erased from the world forever simply because Berwald was unable to take care of him—the future Prince of Finland.

It was at that moment that Berwald, who was born a Swede, lived a Swede, and would die a Swede made a silent vow. No matter how badly he was mistreated by the Finn's, no matter how much he hated the Finnish monarchy with a passion that only a six year old child could understand, no matter how many times he had suffered under the rule of King Mauno—He would not let the Prince die. He would rather be thrown into a trench filled with endless rose thorns than betray this child to death—this child that he did not even know the name of. This child, that he vowed to love and protect more than anything else in the world.

"He's not been weaned yet—that is known from his age. Poor little thing, I wonder if he had a wet nurse...We have no more milk for him and there are no breeding mares in the stable in the dead of winter to be milked..."* Nikolas mumbled off, his voice becoming a thin tremor, his tired hands becoming more useless as he tried to bring this child back to life.

"A child born in the dead of winter who has no teeth to chew bread—he shall be dead within the hour..." Mathias muttered softly, sadly, his hands balled into loose fists at his sides, bowl left on the straw, empty of the white milk that they all thought could give the child even a bit of strength.

"Well, Well...We'll just 'ave ta' try harder is all!" Berwalds voice suddenly rumbled, his fingers heaving the child to sit upright in his swatches, the babe curling in on himself, the crown of blonde hair of his head faint and soft to the touch—when the child is grown it would be as white as the Northern snows...

"Why is this sickly little thing so important to you? He is just an unknown child, left out in the snow to die because he was unfit! Why should we care?" Mathias suddenly barked out, his childishness swelling from within his belly to rest against his heart, making his emotions grow more irritable by the second.

"Because!" Berwald suddenly roared, his eyes fierce, his voice causing the babe in his arms to tremble sightly before silently coughing again, his mouth opening some.

"Because why?" Mathias shouted back, his eyes like blue pools of fire, hands clenched into fists at his sides, teeth gnashed.

"Because we 'ere misfits too! We 'ere once called weak, ugly, sallow, worthless! We 'ere left ta' fend fer ourselves—we 'ere left ta' die! But we raised each other up an' we stayed alive an' together. He deserves th' same..." Berwalds' voice, shifting from a thunderclap to the gentle sound of rain, felt his face turn red, his eyes rimmed with water. Björt too began to cry, Nikolas wiping his eyes as well, trying to keep himself busy by patting the babes cheeks with his fingers.

"Then, he is one of us now..." Mathias mumbled softly, his brows knitted, knuckles white as the anger from before began to melt off his shoulders in rolling waves.

"Aye, that he is." Berwald agreed, looking down at the child that was slowly crooning in his arms, his mouth opening some. Berwald, eyes blinking, looked up to Nikolas.

"He—He open'd 'is mouth! He open'd 'is mouth!" Berwald shouted, a frantic smile on his usually guarded face. Nikolas smiled weakly before his eyes grew sad.

"Berwald, I have nothing more to give him. The milk is gone and the bread that we do have he will not be able to swallow—unless you have something else, I can do nothing for him-" But Nikolas' consoling words were cut off by Berwalds' delirious breath, his cheeks flushed red as his words slew from his mouth in a frenzy.

"Th' wine! Get th' wine!" He shouted with elation, his hands cupping the child up to rest on his knee, the movement causing the baby to suddenly wail out with a shriek, surprising all of them, including the horses whose ears were twitching madly at all the wild fuss that was going on.

"Aye—Aye the wine!" Nikolas shouted, his breath coming up with light nervous chuckles, his shoulders shaking as the babe began to fidget and cry aloud, a sound that was so shrill yet so welcomed it made everyone cling to a few shreds of hope.

"Björt! Kindle the candles together, let them huddle round each other like a hen atop her nest! Mathias, root round for the wine!" Nikolas barked out, his hands working to fling the droplets of the goats milk that still clung to the dish away. Meanwhile Björt, with all the carefulness of a four year old, was pushing the small almost burned out white candles together in a small sloppy filled circle of flame, Berwald all the while patting the child's back, making the child cry more—which in turn delighted the Swede more. Crying was good, crying meant air in lungs and a beating heart. He would have to apologize to the child later for making him cry, but right now that was not the issue at hand, no, keeping the sallow child alive was.

Mathias soon came jogging back to the small circle that had amassed themselves between the banks of stable hay, the Danes hands juggling the goat hide wine sack.

With a thrust of his hand the Dane began to carefully drip the liquid into the iron bowl which was being held by two hands by Nikolas who was sloshing it around carefully by smoothly turning his wrists. After a good half of the wine had been dumped into the small finger bowl, Nikolas placed the iron over the flame, watching the smoke from the candle turn the already dark metal a deep black, black as night.

All the while Berwald waited patiently, his hands rubbing smooth patterns along the babes back, the baby wailing, his toothless little mouth in the shape of a meowing kitten.

Soon, with the help of some added straw to the mix, the candles flame had warmed the wine, the liquid not too hot but not too cold, perfect for reviving a child.

"What, what if we kill 'em!" Björt suddenly wailed, his hands in his mouth, his little teeth chewing on his fingers with fright.

"Then he dies—he is probably a peasant's son anyway. It's good to try, but even we cannot perform miracles... I doubt he'll be missed much anyway..." Mathias mumbled as he helped steady the sloshing mixture, his teeth biting against his lip as he lowered the iron dish to the babes open mouth like a young fawn being coaxed to take his fist sips of his mothers milk.

"He will be missed..." Berwald spoke, his words clear if not a bit shaky from sudden fear.

Nikolas sighed as he pushed the lip of the finger bowl to the child's lips, all the while the infant scrunching up his lips and turning his head this way and that away from the bowl.

"I know you feel bad Berwald, but you will soon forget about him if we cannot aid him, it's best not to think about the dead with regret..." Nikolas mumbled before he gave out a frustrated sigh.

"Damn child will not drink!" He growled, his fingers burning slightly from the bowls heated bottom.

Berwald bit his cheek nervously, his hands still holding the child up.

"He will be m'ssed, not only by me...He...He is no peasants son..." Berwald murmured. His words quieting Nikolas and Mathias, their faces puzzled.

"Then is he the son of a blacksmith?" Mathias asked.

Berwald shook his head.

"A Bastard son from a guard and a handmaiden?" Nikolas questioned.

Berwald shook his head.

"A Prince! Is he a Prince!" Björt asked, his eyes wide, drool coating his fingers as he tore them from his chubby little mouth.

Mathias scoffed.

"Don't be stupid Björt! A Prince? Bah! I'd believe he was was a duck before I'd believe he was a Prince!" Mathias laughed, his hands clutching at his sides.

"He's right..." Berwald mumbled, his eyes downcast, fingers playing with the soft hair atop the babies head. His crying had softened some, worrying Berwald slightly, fearing that the child was not getting enough air.

"What?" Nikolas asked, his voice low, serious, disbelieving.

"He's th' Prince...Th' Prince a' Finland." Berwald spoke again, his fingers smoothing down the babes hair, the child mumbling and cooing in his lap, his cheeks warming to a steady pink, yet his chest was still heaving sporadically—this child would need help very soon lest he join the underworld in a few short minutes.

"No...Oh no...Nonononono.. You mean to tell me that you brought, into our humble shit hole of a home—The Prince of Finland?!" Mathias shouted, his eyes wild as he growled at Berwald with vengeance, his teeth gleaming a deadly wolfish white.

"What if he lives! What if we save 'em! Think a' all th' rewards we'll get!" Berwald tried to reason with the Dane, his hands holding the Prince to his chest protectively.

"What if we don't? He dies—we die! Damnit Berwald, you're going to get us all killed!" The Dane screamed, his voice startling the horse, causing them to pace round their cramped stalls, tossing their heads.

"We have to either heal him or put him back in the snow to die. Those are the only options." Nikolas said calmly, his young eyes much to hardened for a young boy his age.

Mathias and Berwald looked uneasy, Mathias biting his lip till coppery blood was drawn, muttering curses under his breath aimed at the Swede.

"I certainly do not want the death of the Finnish Heir on my hands and neither do you Mathias. We need the Prince to take the wine—it's our last shot." Nikolas spoke, his words holding a heavy sigh to them, a tiredness that chilled them all to the bone yet made their blood boil. They needed the Finnish Prince to live, for their own lives to be spared.

Mathias huffed with sour breath, his hands crossed over his chest.

"An how do ya' propose we get him to drink tha' damned stuff?" Mathias growled, his glare growing bigger by the second, eyes like liquid blue fire.

"He needs to suckle, a babe is age cannot be expected to drink from a bowl like we once thought." Nikolas reasoned, setting the bowl down, half of it spilled along his fingers, leaving them strewn with watery pink that stained his fingers.

Berwald frowned, knowing the child was too young to be expected to take from a cup or bowl, such was the trouble with infants. If only they had a goat whose teat the babe could drink from...

"Well." Mathias sighed out with frustration, his hands at the collar of his tunic.

"If it's for th' Kingdom of Finland-" Mathias began to take off his tunic to reveal his pale tummy and chest, his hands getting caught in the red woolen fabric before Nikolas thwacked him over the head with his hand.

"He does not need your teat to suckle you idiot!" Nikolas hissed with annoyance, his eyes turned to slits as the Dane merely smiled cheekily, Berwald growling once again like a protective dog taking care of her pups.

"Yet he does need to feed from something similar to a pap." Nikolas murmured, his hands picking up the iron finger bowl, the liquid still mildly warm, still good.

"Berwald." Nikolas looked to the tall Swedish child, the giants eyes blinking in the direction of the Norwegian.

"Hnn?"

"Berwald, I need you to dip your finger in the wine, see if the babe will take it." Nikolas mumbled, gesturing with his own finger, pointing it to the bowl with the lovely smooth red liquid.

"Why me?" Berwald asked, cheeks pink. He was a man of six winters damn it! He was not a mother waiting on her children!

"Because you got us into this mess and now you are going to get us out—or do I have to call on the Trolls that live on the mountain to kick your ass!" Nikolas warned, his eyes growing more irritable by the second. Mathias and Björt simply giggled at the Swede's misfortune.

So, begrudgingly slipping his thin index finger into the warmed wine, he carefully brought the dripping finger to the child's lips, watching as the child huffed and cooed, his nostrils flaring.

"...Dun' think he's gonna drink it-" Berwald was about to say when Nikolas immediately hushed him.

"Look!" he whispered with a small smile.

Berwald, tearing his face away from the Norwegian, looked down to see the small pink infant open his mouth with minimal effort to suckle the wine covered finger, the small gums ticking Berwalds' digit, making him giggle.

"Aw look, Berwalds' a mommy!" Mathias laughed to himself, earning a glare from Berwald and a nudge in the rib from Nikolas.

"Give him some more..." Nikolas instructed Berwald, holing the bowl out to him, the Swede doing as he was told. After a few finger scoops of the watered down liquor the Finn's cheeks grew rosy red and his breathing calmed down some, his fingers moving better on their own and his eyes crinkling against snow white lashes—ready to open up to greet the ones that had saved his life.

It was slow at first, when the now giggling Prince decided to open his eyes, those lovely little violet orbs that captured Berwalds attention. That amethyst gaze that made the Swede smile, his heart warming when he looked upon the the little child, wondering If this was what it felt to be a mother, looking at her son for the very first time...

And yet, within an instant it was ruined.

Heavy footsteps were heard near the entrance to the stable, gruff voices soon following, Finnish by the sound of it.

Then they heard it, the heavy slicing of an axe against the stable doors, splintering the lock in two, chains rolling to the floor with a lovely clink as the doors groaned and were pushed open to let in a gust of cold air.

The four boys, eyes wide and mouths agape, turned to one another with silent horror at what had just happened, what was happening, what was going to happen.

Mathias was the first to get up and steady himself, his eyes flashing to see a row of five Finnish royal guard, plenty more behind them. Mathias, making a short high pitched battle cry came running at one of the men with fists in the air—the soldier quickly clubbed him over the head with the heel of his sword, the Dane falling silent in the softening hay.

Next it was Nikolas to scream and fling himself over the Dane's still body, his eyes running wild, Björt starting to wail and burst into shattered sobs till Berwald tried to calm him down, the crying only resulting in the infant in his arms bawling as well, his tiny eyes impossibly wide as he screamed with enough force as to mimic the sound of thunder!

"Who dares! Who dares!" Was the first words spoken that Berwald actually heard before he was scrambling to join his friends, his friends who were sobbing around in the hay like beaten dogs. The baby at his chest letting loose scream after scream before Berwald heard the words again, this time so close he could feel them at his ears.

"YOU! You son of a Swedish Bitch! You saved him! You twisted the fate of the Gods!" It was the King, the King who was red in the face, beard gray and slack, wrinkles forming under his eyes as he yelled, grabbing Berwald by the collar and yanking him upward, the babe in his hand tumbling from his grasp, the blankets thankfully cushioning the fall.

Berwald, biting his tongue to keep from yelling back, shouting and shrieking, decided to only glare with hatred at the King that dared to throw the Prince to the ground, the sweet sweet innocent Finnish Prince.

"Answer me you low life scum! You—You were the one where you not? The one who defied the law—who stole into the night to retrieve my son! He was meant to die! Not be saved by some Swedish brat! Answer me!" He snarled, his fist raised above his head to smash it into Berwalds' face.

Berwald would not cringe, would not shrink into himself. Instead he weakly stood up, jerking himself from the Kings stone like grep. His knees weak and sore, made cracking noises as he tried to walk. He stood up and stumbled the few paces to the swaddled child who laid forgotten by King and soldier alike, the child with the violet eyes, with a smile as beautiful as a rose.

Berwald stooped over to the infant and, with a small heave of his breath, picked up the wearily crying baby in his arms, cradling him to his chest.

"Aye. I found 'em. I brought 'em in. I healed 'em." Berwald swallowed deep in his throat, hearing the sobs of his friends behind him, Nikolas trying his best to wake Mathias up, to find a pulse, to hear a heart beat.

"I...I defied ya'." Berwald whispered, a dry noise that sounded like the wind that began to howl outside the stable walls. A noise that sounded like the dry crisp slither that the soldiers made when they drew their swords from their scabbards. That noise that sounded like the shuffling of hay under foot. That noise that sounded like a boot being raised. That noise that sounded like the whoosh of a kick. That noise that sounded like a blood curdling scream.

…...

DUN DUN DUN! Ya, bet you never saw that little bit coming (Neither did I!) What did King Mauno do to Berwald? Will Tino live? What of Mathias, Nikolas, and Björt? Bwahahaahahahhahhaahhah! You shall have to wait lovely readers 3

ALSO! DO NOT FEED INFANTS WINE PLEASE! It was common for children to drink just like their parents in the 'Ye Olden Days' but not now. No, not now! (However, for adults—wine does help with opening arteries and increases blood flow within the body. By doing this it can keep blood clots from forming which can help with oxygen flow as well. Roses are also good for people suffering lung disease or coughs. The more you know~~~

….

Authors Notes:

-"He's not been weaned yet—that is known from his age. Poor little thing, I wonder if he had a wet nurse...We have no more milk for him and there are no breeding mares in the stable in the dead of winter to be milked..."*-That's right. Milk from a Mare. A female horse. Yum Yum. Though that was usually the last method for feeding babies because if could most often lead to vomiting and death or the flux in their bowls. Yummmmm.

**Author's Note:**

> Ew, mention of live births! Poor Tino! What will happen to him! Do not worry, though the mean Dolphins want Tino to die, I won't let him...Maybe. But you must stick around to see if he lives! PLEASE REVIEW! I LIVE OFF OF THEMMMM! (This story is not going to be as descriptive as my others, simply because it's just a pain in the ass to write, but I will still make it enjoyable and entertaining. I promise!)
> 
> Authors Notes:
> 
> -"By all the Gods my son will live! I do not care if you must enchant him with the wickedness of Gullveig! He will live and he will be king! Do what you must!"*-'Gullveig' was a Seer and an enchantress in Norse Mythology who was lustful for gold. She pitted the two groups of Norse Gods again teach other till they reduced the Walls of Asgard (home of the Gods) to ruins. She is not one to be trusted.
> 
> -"Breathe into his eyes! Make them flutter child, lest this young lad die in the clutches of Hel!"*-'Hel' is the Norse version of Hel. I don't think there is a heaven unless you are a God or a Warrior. Other people just go to Hel. It was a dank and dark wet place guarded by the half rotting Goddess named Hel.
> 
> -But on that night, when the wind howled it's fiercest, like the hungry and snapping wolf Fenrir, the Queen of Finland was woken with a start as the walls of the monarchs bedroom began to ring with wails and cries, muffled and choking.*-Fenrir was the son of Loki(The Trickster God who would later lead an army against the Gods at the end of the world.) Fenrir was a wolf and was bound by the Gods because they feared his strength. At the end of the world he will Swallow the Norse God Odin whole.
> 
> -The cauldrons swung from heavy chains, the huge metal rimmed troughs bigger than any cauldron that brewed in the hall of the great God Aegir.* -Aegir was the God of the Sea and, due to a promise, would entertain the Gods in his hall with huge cauldrons of Ale.
> 
> -Runes had been carved along the edges of his crib to help ease the illness, but not even the power of the Gods seemed to help the poor innocent child.* –'Runes' are an alphabet that was used most commonly in Norwegian and British history; they are still used today by Pagans everywhere, though they are mostly associated with the use of magic and diviniation now.
> 
> -"Besides. You know this has been a tradition in our culture since the times of Old—when the Sea gave birth to the first Goddess who gave birth to the first man! It is a tradition that must be abide by... No matter how many hearts it pains. The child is not fit, therefore..."*- In Finnish Mythology, the Sky created a woman Goddess out of the waves and she became the skys daughter. She was imporegnated by the sea and, while she was in labor, a duck landed on her knee and laid eggs on her knee. The eggs grew so hot that the Goddess kicked her feet up and the eggs cracked and the shells became the land, the yolk became the sun. Then, her son sprang forth from her womb a grown man. His name was Väinämöinen, and he was the Finnish God-hero. That my freinds, is the Finnish creation myth.
> 
> -"No...No...You can't...Not my baby...! Ei minu Vauva! Not my baby!"*- Rough translation is Rough. 'Ei minu Vauva!'='Not my baby!' in Finnish.
> 
> -It was the Kingdom, the hall that King Mauno wanted to give to his son. But now... Now there was no hope for that. Tino would be left to die in the old ways of the Norse.*- THIS IS LEGIT SHIT RIGHT HERE. Viking's were know for being brutal and tough. When a child was born, at the age of five they would be groomed to work along side the adults. The girls would spend time with aunts and grandmothers, learning how to cook and take care of the home. The boys were sent to live with uncles and grandfathers and learned to fight, make weapons and boats, plant crops, and build homes. If a child appeard sick at birth, they were immediately left to die outside. The family could not afford to feed a sick child. It became more of a tradition and a way of weeding out the weak from the strong. (Though Finland technically didn't have a viking culture)
> 
> -King Mauno, deciding that the shelter of the sacred trees might bring his son luck in the land beyond men, laid the child down along the crystal snow*-Ash trees were sacred in Norse Mythology, as the great tree Yggdrasil that held up the many worlds of Gods and men was a huge Ash tree.
> 
> -"Anteeksi... Forgive me my son..."*-'Forgive me'-Finnish. HELLA ROUGH TRANSLATION.


End file.
